<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>sweet music (almost) by hysteries</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813607">sweet music (almost)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteries/pseuds/hysteries'>hysteries</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>beginning middle end (dimension 20 alphabet 2021) [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dimension 20 (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Campaign 03 Season 01: The Unsleeping City, Campaign 03 Season 02: The Unsleeping City Chapter II, Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Iga and Oskar fall in love in the backdrop of the Solidarity movement and they are very cute!, Young Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:01:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,304</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29813607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hysteries/pseuds/hysteries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Iga Lisowski has never asked for anything from anyone — but throughout her life, Oskar Bauman has been there all the while, waiting with a smile on his lips and flowers in his hands.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iga Lisowski/Oskar Lisowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>beginning middle end (dimension 20 alphabet 2021) [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Dimension 20 Alphabet 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sweet music (almost)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Dimension 20 Alphabet 2021 collection. My prompt was <b>flowers</b> and the title was taken from <i>Almost (Sweet Music)</i> by Hozier. </p><p>I really really love The Unsleeping City: Chapter Two so much! I'm fascinated by the idea of Iga and her ties to history, as well as her past in Poland versus her present in New York. I wish there'd been a little more of an explanation into Iga's life in Poland and her relationship with Oskar, but you can't have it all! I wanted to pay a small tribute to the aspects of her story that I found fascinating, while also highlighting her deep capacity for love for her family and going a little bit rom-com with it. The ritual I refer to in this is the Drowning of Marzanna, an annual spring ritual that some villages in Poland take part in. I think there's such an interesting tension there in Polish history between paganism and religion and exclusion, and I could see Iga's story absolutely fitting into that. </p><p><b>TW</b> for brief and non-explicit reference to World War Two, antisemitism, and social ostracization.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oskar Bauman is the only person to ever give Iga flowers.</p><p>Not that she needs them. Her and her mother have a garden of their own that blooms no matter the harvest. They cultivate herbs and greens, mostly, but allow for a small section of flowers up in front. Marigolds, daffodils, and sweetpeas grow alongside the food, and poppies always emerge amongst them, like the earth is blessing their efforts. <em>This</em>, her mama always said, <em>this, they can never take away from us</em>.</p><p>The first time Oskar brings her a flower, they are children. Iga has never received a gift from anyone who wasn’t her mother, and she doesn’t know what to do with the bright red poppy blossoming from his hand.</p><p>“Is this a mistake?”</p><p>She’s never been so unsure or uncertain. Lisowski women are made of metal. They do not waver or feel their knees shake.</p><p>“What? No, Iga.” Oskar smiles then, the sweetest she’s ever seen. “It matches your scarf.”</p><p>She looks down at the crimson fabric laced around her throat. Her mother knitted it years ago, before Iga can ever remember it. It’s one of her finest possessions, and to hear someone recognize that makes heat rise up her throat.</p><p>“My scarf?”</p><p>“It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”</p><p>“Oh.” Iga reaches forward and snatches the flower from his grip without waiting for him to give it up. Luckily, the poppy doesn’t bend or break, but stays intact in her hand. Maybe it’s made of the same stuff as a Lisowski. “Thank you.”</p><p>He shifts on his feet. “You’re welcome.” And Iga decides right then that he’s the strangest boy she’s ever met.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next time he brings her a flower, they’re older and should be wiser.</p><p>Iga’s turning sixteen and it’s her birthday, though there’s no real celebration. Her mama will use the sugar she saved to make desserts and they will play card games all night, but the rest of town will be busy. Iga’s birthday is the same day they drown Marzanna, the same day as the spring equinox. No matter how well she gets along with the other girls in her year, they’ll attend the annual parade and she won’t. It’s tradition – and the townsfolk can hardly invite their two witches to drown a demon.</p><p>So when there’s a knock that morning, Iga and her mother both stare at the door for a long minute. The knocking persists all the while, not insistent or harsh, but steady. Constant. Eventually, her mother points Iga forward.</p><p>“Hello!” Oskar stands there with a bouquet of flowers and leaves in his hand, hardly swayed by the force with which Iga opens the door. The flowers aren’t special, not like those burrowed under the blanket of snow in Iga’s garden. They’re sick and prickly, mostly, like all flowers that can survive in March are.</p><p>“Is this supposed to be a threat?” Iga asks.</p><p>“No, Iga.” Oskar uses his spare hand to push his hair up and out of his face. “It’s a gift. You’re sixteen today, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Shouldn’t you be at the river?” She deflects.</p><p>“They won’t miss me! It’s a crowd there every year.” Oskar glances behind Iga, and she knows that he can see the emptiness of her home. “Not like here.”</p><p>“That’s a very rude thing to say,” she points out.</p><p>“It’s true,” he shrugs. “Besides, if I were looking to summon spring, I’d rather talk to our witches than a straw effigy of some god that never existed.”</p><p>Behind her, Iga hears her mother laugh.</p><p>“Invite the boy in!”</p><p>“Mama,” she starts, but her mother interrupts.</p><p>“It would be nice to have a friend for a change, no?”</p><p>Iga thinks about that. Oskar Bauman is not a friend, but not a stranger either. He is an outsider, like her. His family had been run out of the village during the war, and though they’d returned, they hadn’t quite been accepted back with open arms. Much like Iga and her mother, they’d been forced to the outskirts. Tolerated, but never truly included.</p><p>“You’re not going to eat me, are you, Mrs. Lisowski?” Oscar calls into the house.</p><p>“Only if we run out of kołaczki,” her mother answers.</p><p>“You eat Christmas cookies for your birthday?” He asks Iga this time.</p><p>“I like Christmas, and I like cookies.”</p><p>“Okay.” Oskar doesn’t sound convinced, and he’s giving her a look through furrowed brows like she’s the most bizarre person he’s ever seen. Which – Iga is. She’s a witch, for God’s sake, but it’s the kołaczki in March that unnerves him. Strange boy.</p><p>“Well, if you really want to come in…” Iga hesitates for another moment, but then extends her arm to open the door. “Please leave your bouquet outside.”</p><p>Oskar frowns, looking somewhat put-out. “But I made it for you!”</p><p>“No dead leaves in my house!” Iga’s mother’s calls.</p><p>“But – you’re witches. Don’t you crush up leaves like this for magic?”</p><p>“Not that kind,” Iga replies, nodding towards his handful. “We use herbs, not rot.”</p><p>With a dejected slump, Oskar tucks his bouquet against the doorframe and steps inside to celebrate Iga’s birthday for the first time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he moves to the city, Iga expects never to see the strange boy again. He writes, but no one ever comes home once they leave. Of course, she should’ve learned never to expect anything when it comes to Oskar Bauman, because one day she arrives home from work to find him on her doorstep. The bouquet is colourful this time, at least, albeit wilted. There are lilies and tulips and plants Iga doesn’t recognize, all crowded together.</p><p>“Did you bring those all the way from Gdansk?” She puts her hand on her hip, trying to look impatient and intimidating to hide the sudden tightness in her throat.</p><p>Oskar is different now. They’re both older, but the lines on his face are deeper. He has the look of a man who’s worked long and hard, and hasn’t had a good night’s rest in a long time. He sent her letters from the city, punctuated by the word <em>Solidarity</em> here and there, but Iga hadn’t realized how much it all had taken out of him.</p><p>Still, when their eyes meet, his face brightens into a smile.</p><p>“Aren’t they pretty? They told me they were fighters. Would make it all the way home with me and back again too, if they had to.”</p><p>“They don’t have to.” Iga reaches forward, that age-old instinct to snatch them out of his hands guiding her forward. This time, Oskar takes a step back. “What, those aren’t for me?”</p><p>“They are,” Oskar says, rumbling laughter in his voice. “But if you’re going to pretend not to be impressed, then I’m going to have to play hard to get.”</p><p>Iga rolls her eyes. “You’re stubborn as ever.”</p><p>“And so are you.”</p><p>There’s no bite in either of their words, nothing but softness, and the look on his face breaks something inside of her. Iga reaches forward again – but this time, she wraps her arms around Oskar and breathes in his scent.</p><p>“I missed you, you fool,” she mutters into his neck. “I thought you were gone for good.”</p><p>“Couldn’t stay away, could I?” Oskar answers. “Must be your witchcraft.”</p><p>She smacks a hand against his back but stays in the hug. “Don’t make me hex you.”</p><p>The flowers are wedged between them, somewhere, but Iga finds she doesn’t care about the flowers nearly as much as the boy who carries them.</p><p>And years later, when he brings her flowers home from the grocery store every Sunday afternoon, Iga will wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him hard, ignoring the groans from the children. Remembering her strange boy, and his stranger bouquets, and how she loved him all the while.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>